Plausible Deniability
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "Know your place." - After sustaining an injury on the job, Vi is given the night off patrol. However, left on her lonesome at home she begins to realise some bitter truths in her life. (Warning: Suggested Yuri ahead!)


(A/N): Wahey, been a while since I've written for lesbians! xD

This idea literally came up on a random thought whilst sitting on the bus on a cold October morning. Everything you are about to witness was brainstormed in a couple of minutes, with a strange drive to write it ruling my thoughts.

Kind of like the good ol' days in retrospect :P

Now, Vi is one of my favourite characters in LOL. She is my second top-laner (After Shen) and my second jungler (After Diana). Ever since the release of Jinx (Who I hate), my liking of Vi has only intensified in the wake of all of those Jinx fanboys :/

Expect my usual: Nothing special. I actually thought this up in a similar style to "Just for You", where I wrote the story on paper and then copied onto the big screen itself. Let's see how it went.

LET US GET IT ON

Warning: Terrible attempts at being endearing, spelling errors, OOC characters, rusty writing from an exhausted bloke, a lesbian Vi, and a POV perspective of a 20-or-something woman written by a 16 year-old Londoner with an unhealthy obsession over Bakewell tarts.

**Plausible Deniability**

Another day, another patrol.

Another patrol, another brawl.

Another _brawl_, another _limb_.

And another limb, another night shift lost with all pay covered and a pat on the back with a whispered "Thanks".

The streets of Piltover looked pristine in the city centre. She had once lived in the outer reaches of the area, but it came with the job: A fancy one-room apartment in the luxurious Gold district. She'd never been one to appreciate fine paneling and lobster dinners, although according to the posh lobby lady it was an acquired taste.

"_Everyone adjusts, don't worry dear."_

Barging through door after door in the wide, fragrant corridors, she began to regret choosing one of the higher up rooms. It was childish really, but as a girl growing up she'd always wanted to view the skyline of her home-town. She thought it'd be better than anything she had ever experienced; flying high like the great angels of legend.

_Free to soar!_

In reality, it was one of the most boring things she'd ever seen.

One can only be amazed and in awe for so long, and by the third week of her moving in she'd realised that the view was as awe-inspiring as a dog singing the Demacian National Anthem: Fun at first, but quickly degenerating into something irritating.

_Kind of like her, once she thought about it._

She scanned the many doorways, rows upon rows of brass and bronze nameplates sitting proudly on warm brown walls. She cradled her fists upon one-another, counting each nameplate until she reached the sixteenth.

"_Vi, N/A, H8-16"_

She didn't know her full name, she never had. She'd jokingly said to the staff of the apartments that she was in fact a parcel for "Customer Number Six" when she first moved in, yet none of them laughed.

To be honest, she didn't get the joke either.

She nudged the unlocked door forward, her keys probably hiding somewhere inside of the living room. She had never had a lock before, and she'd always forget to bring the fiddly keys with her on patrol. There wasn't much point in locking her door anyway she found; who would want to steal her stuff in this rich, middle-class area? It'd be like mugging a Yordle for its undersized shoes.

With a lazy lean, Vi of the Piltover Police Enforcement Division closed her expensive maple door, the motion-detecting lights flickering to life just in time before the room was shrouded in darkness. A droplet of sweat dribbled off her brow like a prisoner on the run, the agony of her splayed hand finally getting to her.

"Shite…" She muttered, hulking her iron encased fists to the lounge like a shopper returning from the sales. Flopping onto the dust-ridden sofa she gently rested her hands on the glass coffee table, knocking down month old coffee cups and cans of drink.

She needed to break her hands free.

With an exasperated grunt, she heaved her foot up and braced it against the seal of the oversized gauntlet on her left hand. Vi rolled her eyes at the design of her token tools of justice, having been changing and modifying the same set of gloves since her teens to suit her growing needs. They were just too small for her now, but she couldn't bear to abandon them.

_They were all she had._

It was all that remained of the old her: A small fragment of what she'd left behind. Vi often wondered why she held onto the past so tightly, despite having abandoned her ways when she got the job on the force years ago.

_It was an interesting question to consider._

"_Why on Valoran did you join the force?"_

She couldn't care less about the citizens of Piltover. If you spend your life on the streets, you tend to realise their lack of worth: Stupid inbred peasants and stuffy nosed aristocrats, the famed "City of Progress" was no different to anywhere else in that regard. You were either poor or you were rich; there was no in-between.

The thing was Vi was a fighter, not a philosopher. And how she saw it, she'd joined the force for the benefit it provided her.

_But what benefit?_

_Camaraderie?_

Vi winced as the first gauntlet burst from her hand, revealing a wonky set of knuckles. She must've dislocated her fingers during her daily scrap with the local shop-lifting gang. She could've sworn that they had started wearing cheap armour now: How else could it hurt to punch their scrawny-nosed faces?

Her hand flopped pathetically to her side, like a lazy dog snuggling up to its owner on a cold winter's day. She began the ritual on her other gauntlet, bracing against the sofa once more as the word echoed in the void of her thoughts.

"_Camaraderie."_

She'd never longed for that in the past. From the moment she stole her first purse she understood that there was no honour among thieves: no respect among scum. She had used people, and in turn she had been used herself. Yet the offer of work in the Force possessed a certain charm of duty to it, something she had admittedly longed for as a young lass of the streets. There would be petty disputes from time to time of course, but in the end everyone was aiming towards a similar goal.

Order, no matter what the cost.

Vi snarled as the second gauntlet gave way, partially from the sight of her hand's state but mainly due to the situation she was currently in. She was still fight worthy, and for every second she wasted here on her flat arse her fellow officers were continuing the fight against crime. It wasn't fair for anyone involved; her or her counter-parts.

It may've come as a bit of a surprise, but Vi loved her job. The state of her apartment was a clear sign of it: When she wasn't on patrol _legally_, she was on patrol _illegally. _Vigilantism was her only pass time when there was no work to be done officially.

_She just wanted something to do._

Her thoughts began to spiral out of control as she studied her hands curiously. They were not the hands you'd expect on a woman; pale, rough and large. The gloves only came off when she wasn't working, and the tone of her flesh was a clear indicator of how much time she spent on the field.

Suddenly her mind deviated, slumping away from her fellow enforcers and instead settling on her boss. Sheriff Caitlyn was a strange woman, her constant calm and uniform approach to life often being a source of discomfort for Vi. Whenever she emerged with crooks and swag reclaimed, the Sheriff would simply nod. She wouldn't even look up from her desk, she'd just nod her head and continue sorting her papers.

Balling her fist, she prepared to pop each finger back into their rightful places. The image of Caitlyn's stoic expression sat in her mind's eye, as if judging her from across the city. Vi grimaced as she exerted pressure onto her ring finger, until with a gut wrenching _snap _it popped back into place. She roared in pain, a surge of agony shooting up her spine. The image of Caitlyn sat ever vigilant, unimpressed by her actions.

"_Prove yourself to me."_

Vi's heart began to race at the challenge, filled with an all new drive. God knew why, but for some reason she reached for her middle finger and pulled with an even greater vigour than last time.

_A snap, a crack, and a pop._

_But no scream._

She gritted her teeth, holding back welled tears with the skill and efficiency of a veteran. She didn't want to show the pain, for right now she had someone to prove herself to.

_Caitlyn._

It was a strange drive that had filled her at the thought of her superior, like the anger that follows the recollection of a distant memory. What sort of drive was it? Was it a drive to impress a close friend? A parent?

A lover?

Another pop, and with it an aching sigh. She wiggled her fingers as if testing the flexibility of a brand new glove, before gesturing to the ceiling with a balled fist. "Is that enough?"

Groaning in discomfort, Vi hauled herself from her seated position and stumbled into her bland bedroom. Stacks of cardboard boxes filled the wide space, having never been unpacked those many months ago. On the chaos of her unmade bed sat a plain pair of shorts, which she snatched up hastily.

As the machine act of changing commenced, Vi thought about the surge of emotion she had just felt in the living room. It was no secret that she and the Sheriff weren't exactly "pals". The two were practically polar opposites; a soul of anarchy and a soul of order; red and blue, fire and water.

Yet now that she'd thought about it, she'd come to realise the answer to her grand quandary:

"_What benefit?"_

"_Stability."_

A firm line, set by her superior. In the streets it all came down to power, but with Caitlyn there was rank and loyalty to the system. Vi wanted a higher power to obey, she wanted a source of control in her hectic life: a figure head to serve.

She wanted someone to _prove _herself to. It was a childish thing really, but she hoped that one day after an evening solving crime and protecting the civilians of the city Caitlyn would approach her. Not out of business, but out of sheer respect: A moment where the two could briefly stand equal, so she could hear just two words from her cultured tongue.

"_Well done."_

Vi shuffled back into her lounge, feeling rather chilly in just shorts and a shirt. She didn't really know what to do right now, her heart rocketing from the emotion she had experienced a few moments ago.

_Could it have truly been love?_

_Love for her superior officer?_

Truth be told, she'd never been in love before. Despite the friendly face she displayed in public, she held all men and women she saw with contempt. It was wrong and she knew it, but she based all of her thoughts and assumptions of people on her own experiences in the past. There were only crooks in the slums of Piltover, so how could she love someone who'd off her for a dime?

_Lush, long hair... Solid, powerful brown eyes... A calming voice and mind... Long, and breath-takingly smooth legs..._

_It just felt right._

When it came down to it, Vi truly respected Sheriff Caitlyn. She lived to please her; it was all she lived for now. Yet to Caitlyn herself, what was she exactly? An asset? A liability?

She flexed her knuckles once more, a shrill _click _making her wince. A keen thinker would call it a coincidental metaphor in a way, with the popping of her knuckles representing the connections she was making one by one.

_But she was thick, wasn't she?_

_No brain; just some hefty brawn to bring to the table._

She recollected her first mission in the Force, where she turned in a group of fiends infamous in the racketeering business. She'd worked with them occasionally during her life of crime, although nothing more than purely mutual tasks. The manacled leaders called her a pathetic lap dog, to which she responded promptly by breaking a couple of noses. It was just her denial speaking; master's hound biting out of pride.

Part of her knew it was futile, yet the small cloud of foolish optimism that she still possessed pushed on. There was always a chance wasn't there? Didn't the cliché filled novels often say that there was nothing to lose? Why suffer in silence? Tell the damn woman your feelings and get results, it was as simple as that!

_Only it wasn't that simple._

Even disregarding their genders, their sexuality, not to mention their jobs and classes. A rank and file troop and a high-ranking governmental official? Just what would the consequences be?

How would you even feel if a random person you'd never been friends with suddenly declared their love for you?

Vi hadn't realised it, but she was in the bathroom with a drenched face. She was crying, a gentle aqua towel crumpled between her fingers. Caitlyn wouldn't take kindly to any advances from her officers. They were a _civil service_, and there wasn't time for such things.

_It was as **simple** as that._

_So was that it?_

_It cannot be, so forget about it?_

She couldn't just bury her feelings and move on, who could live with that? She couldn't just say she wasn't in love and continue her lousy job!

Come to think of it...

_Was she even in love?_

In the chaos, she'd forgotten it all. Was what she was feeling even true love? Racing heart, sweaty palms, lust for contact... Those were the signs of it, weren't they? It _had _to be love. It just _had _to be.

In a bout of sudden, unannounced rage she slammed the towel against the sink. With so much irrational and illogical frustration and nothing to vent it on, Vi simply growled to herself lowly like a caged beast. She rested her head against the cool enamel of the sink rim, leaning her weight down as she gritted her teeth. Her wounded fingers whined in protest as she pressed her weight, yet she just snickered in response.

_Bring back the pain!_

"_Prove your feelings."_

She felt like dislocating her fingers again. She wanted to feel the bones popping out of their sockets one by one once more. She dreamed of that agony once more; anything! Anything to prove herself, and to prove her _love_!

_She would do it a thousand times over to hear it._

"_Well done, Vi."_

From nowhere an overpowering calm seized control of her body. Unwilling to raise her head, she stared into the shiny enamel of the sink bowl. Her reflection stared back at her with an expression best described as "terrified". Wide eyed, reddened, her hair a mess, she blinked slowly.

"_There are two people: The peasants and the rich."_

"_And only the rich can afford the luxury of love."_

A friend of hers said this to her during her first spree of crime years ago. She didn't understand why he wanted her to know this back then, but after he muttered that phrase the two never spoke again. Maybe an idle glance across the ghetto street, or even a nod of greeting, but no words were ever bandied between them again.

She had felt the very same sensation around him that she felt now. He wasn't attractive, and to be honest he wasn't entirely kind. But on those early days he was her only source of guidance. When she stole her first purse from a snobby lady who had gotten herself lost, Vi quickly approached him with her earnings. It was obvious why she did it now; not for love or companionship.

_For approval._

_A sign of her worth as a human being._

She pressed against the sink like a child post-tantrum, her bare thighs surrounded by a discomforting wind. The need for warmth at this instant overcame the pain of misery only briefly, yet it was more than enough time for Vi to pinch the towel from the sink and leave. The towel was still bathed in the warmth of the cupboard it had been stored in and she held it to her chest, begging for the warmth to mingle with her body.

_Nothing would beat the real thing._

_The sight, the smell, the touch._

_The raw emotion of embrace._

Vi waddled over to her freezing bed, slouching forward in shame from her outburst. It was rather amusing, but maintaining her facade of optimism in public had partially convinced her that the fake her was real: The Vi of her dreams.

She sniffled from the effects of a mild cold, timidly slipping into the frozen clutches of her bedding. She curled around the towel pathetically, closing her eyes tightly as she tried to focus on the heat.

_No one would want the real Vi._

_No one would want the fake Vi either._

The ice chill of the bed practically scoffed at her display, refusing to warm up despite her presence. Vi curled even tighter, sighing forlornly.

"_Just let me sleep."_

But the bed was having none of it: Sheets, duvet, case, all of them. She had no right to sleep with this quandary on her mind. She was to work it out no matter what the cost. Wide awake now, Vi sat up on the bedside with the towel still on hand.

_It was drained of all warmth._

The orange of the setting sun and coming moon had been washed away, leaving the dark black of the night sky. It had been hours since she had initially arrived, hours wasted on the turmoil of feelings that still clawed and tormented her soul. She stood to her feet, begging for something to take her mind off Caitlyn.

_Clean the apartment, unpack, maintain the gauntlets..._

_All useless._

She couldn't rid the image of her unimpressed frown. Caitlyn wouldn't like the idea of one of her officers being like this now would she? Vi cracked her neck painfully, gazing out through the window that she once valued dearly. The Piltover skyline remained in eternal motion, machines and workers busily wandering left and right to attend their own tasks. This was what the Sheriff wanted her officers to protect.

"_Prove yourself to me."_

There was only one thing to do. Take the risk, or at least work towards it. Vi didn't possess any shoddy romance novels, but she had a vague idea: Get close to her, then maybe... Just maybe... It'd all work out.

_But where did it all begin?_

_She needed to __**prove **__herself._

Vi leant against the window, sighing deeply as life continued across the city. Her issues were so minor on the grand scale of things, weren't they? Mere feelings shouldn't be disrupting her duty on the field of work: Digits don't deserve a right to social problems now, do they?

If she knew her father, he'd probably say that phrase. Enough drabble: Get to work, earn your food, back to work, earn your food.

"_Keep the fight going."_

"_Nolite te bastardes carborundorum."_

One day she might earn the right to speak to _her_. One day she might earn the _privilege_ to hold her delicate, sensitive fingers. One day she may be able to hold her close, taste her lips, and realise what she _longed _for.

But for now she'd just have to keep moving, keep kicking and keep working with that plausible reality hanging from a rod ahead of her. _Eventually_ she would prove herself, and she was adamant in that fact.

Vi closed the blinds.

_Eternal life lay ahead._

X

(A/N): I don't know what was more depressing: The story or the _story _if you get my drift!

That ended up as a complete disaster. Goes to show why you shouldn't brainstorm a fic on a tired morning and then write it all up whilst you're still knackered. I've written worse, but this is down there at the bottom rung.

Had potential, but I screwed it up. Meh, 'tis what I do best :P

And I'm not padding this out or anything... This was really short, wasn't it? :l


End file.
